Sara

Art and Fear: Fears about Yourself

Today at work I stumbled across a book on our bookshelves here in the studio titled Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking. It explores the way that art is created, the reasons it often fails to be created and the difficulties that a lot of artists face, causing them to give up on their art along the way. I thought it would be an interesting read, and since I had nothing else to do at the moment, I picked it up. I read the entire book today. It was fantastic and it applied to myself in sections.

At one point the book explored the connection between art and fear. Fears about yourself and fears about others. The "Fears About Yourself" section (with this highly suitable quote at the beginning: "We have met the enemy and he is use. - Pogo") states that fears about artmaking fall into two categories: fears about yourself and fears about your reception by others. Fears about yourself often prevent you from creating your best work, while fears of reception from others prevent you from doing your own work. The part that stuck out to me the most in this section, however, was the section titled "Pretending."

The fear that you're only pretending to do art is the (readily predictable) consequence of doubting your own artistic credentials. After all, you know better than anyone else the accidental nature of much that appears in your art, not to mention all those elements you know originated with others (and even some you never even intended by which the audience has read into your work). From there it's only a short hop to feeling like you're just going through the motions of being an artist. It's easy to imagine that real artists know what they're doing, and that they--unlike you--are entitled to feel good about themselves and their art. Fear that you are not a real artist causes you to undervalue your work.

The chasm widens even further when your work isn't going well, when happy accidents aren't happening or hunches aren't paying off. If you buy into the premise that are can be made only be people who are extra-ordinary, such down periods only serve to confirm that you aren't.

This is my problem. Every time I sit down in front of my canvas surrounded by my brushes and paint, I think, "What if I'm awful? What if I have no ideas? What if I'm just trying to be an artist and failing miserably and everyone around me only says I have talent because they care about me? What if I don't actually have any talent and I'm just playing at painting and drawing?" Once I start painting I get over these initial questions because really, they don't matter. It's just me and the canvas and my head and I can do whatever comes to mind because whatever I put down on that canvas will be my art. My version of art. The book goes on to make a good point about this very thought process:

But while you may feel you're just pretending that you're an artist, there's no way to pretend you're making art. Go ahead, try writing a story while pretending your writing a story. Not possible. Your work may not be what curators want to exhibit or publishers want to publish, but those are different issues entirely.

In other words, if you're making art, you are an artist in your own right. Whether or not you will eventually get your dreamed of one-man exhibit and sell your painting or whether or not your book is picked up by a publishing house isn't the relevant issue in this matter. If you are making art, you're an artist.

This fear of pretending goes hand in hand with the next question that I often ask myself. How much talent, if any, do I actually have for art?

Talent, in common parlance, is "what comes easily." So sooner or later, inevitably, you reach a point where the work doesn't come easily and--Aha!, it's just as you feared! Wrong. By definition, whatever you have is exactly what you need to produce your best work. There is probably no clearer waste of psychic energy than worrying about how much talent you have—and probably no worry more common. This is true even among artists of considerable accomplishment.

Even at best talent remains a constant, and those who rely upon that gift alone, without developing further, peak quickly and soon fade to obscurity . . . Artists get better by sharpening their skills or by acquiring new ones; they get better by learning to work, and by learning from their work.

Talent may get someone off the starting blocks faster, but without a sense of direction or a goal to strive for, it won't count for much. The world is filled with people who were given great natural gifts, sometimes conspicuously flashy gifts, yet never produce anything. And when that happens, the world soon ceases to care whether they are talented.

Looking back, I think I must have some talent. I was able to pick up that pencil and draw a very good picture for someone who had never drawn before. The first time I created a painting, it made sense. My colors turned out exactly how I wanted them to and the finished product pretty well matched what I had in my head when I started the painting. So really, I was able to get off the starting blocks pretty fast. I really do think that my greatest talent lies in my colorist abilities. I know exactly how to mix cornflower blue paint. I can look at a color and say, "That purple has been mixed with yellow and white has been added to turn it into a tone."

So I know I have some artistic talent, even if it doesn't go beyond colors. But like I've already said. I was able to get off the starting blocks quickly. It didn't require much thought. I never learned how to draw or paint, I just did it. So my ever-present worry of "Do I actually have any talent at all?" is really baseless. What I should be asking myself is, "Do I actually have any direction at all? Do I know what I want to paint and where I want to go with it?" Most of the time, yes. Sometimes, no. Those are the times that I really do hope for happy accidents. Most of the time the "happy accidents" fates smile on me. Sometimes they don't. And that's when I question myself. But I really do need to learn that I don't need to question my talent. It's there. It's my direction that I need to question. It's my drive that I need to keep up. If I keep going, talent with aid me. But if I give up, talent won't do me any good.

I also need to recognize that talent doesn't equal perfection, and perfection doesn't equal good art.

If you think good work is somehow synonymous with perfect work, you are headed for big trouble. Art is human; error is human; ergo, art is error. Inevitably, your work will be flawed. Why? Because you're a human being, and only human beings, warts and all, make art.

Ansel Adams, never one to mistake precision for perfection, often recalled the old adage that "the perfect is the enemy of the good," his point being that if he waited for everything in the scene to be exactly right, he'd probably never make a photograph. Adams was right: to require perfection is to invite paralysis.

I've never really expected perfection from my artwork, but I expect pretty close. I suppose I should start going for precision like Ansel Adams does. Do what you're doing as precisely and as well as you can and what you produce will be your best work at that time with what you had available to you. If I clung to the idea of perfection I would never advance in my artmaking. I would cling to what I know very well and what I know I can do perfectly. I'd never take artistic risks, I'd never discover new techniques or ideas. Requiring perfection really would invite paralysis. Requiring perfection would eventually lead you to quit because you'd stop working to avoid making (inevitable) mistakes.

This section of the book also addresses how expectations can also lead an artist to stop working. If expectations always exceed execution and an artist allows him- or herself to become overly bothered by differences between the expectations of the finished product and the actual finished product, this can lead to discouragement and eventually lead to quitting.

Given a small kernel of reality and any measure of optimism, nebulous expectations whisper to you that the work will soar, that it will become easy, that it will make itself. And now and then the sky opens and the work does make itself . . . Unfortunately, expectations based on illusion lead almost always to disillusionment.

I try not to have expectations. To be truthful, I rarely have any expectations at all when I am painting. Occasionally I will paint from expectations. More often, I just paint. When I'm drawing, however, I have expectations. High expectations. I suffer from the aforementioned expectations based on illusion. More often than not I reconcile any imperfections in the drawing with the overall appeal of the drawing and the overall quality of it. Sometimes, however, a drawing is relegated to a drawer, never to be seen again because I can't reconcile the imperfections with the rest of the drawing and I can't seem to fix them, either. To put it bluntly, I disown the drawing. I try not to think that I ever created that drawing.

This is a bad idea. If I am going to learn from my imperfections and learn not to have overly high expectations I need to own that drawing. I need to look at it and say, "I created this. I'm not exactly proud of it, it needs some work and these are the parts that need some work." By doing this I recognize my artistic shortcomings and I am able to advance my skills in those areas because I've brought them to my attention rather than burying them inside a dark drawer.

posted by Sara @ 12:00 AM Comments: 4